The mother who I used to know
has melted like November's snow.
And now she seems to simply be
somebody else's memory:
an echo they had heard at school,
a voice that kept them calm and cool
while they were taken in and taught
and trained to think like others thought.
The mother who's no longer there
to answer plea, of son, or prayer
can sometimes glow and glide like ghost
on days when she is missed the most.
For sometimes, spectres waste a word.
(The dead can speak; it’s not absurd!)
When fate is fair and love is blind,
The cold and cruel can still be kind!
-
Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 17th, 2019 06:54
- Comment from author about the poem: for my mother
- Category: Family
- Views: 29
Offline)
Comments2
Wonderfully structured and presented Kevin. Great rhythm and sentiment ~ a credit to you, Bravo.
Could be my mother, could be everyone's.
Kind regards, Alan
Thank you kindly, Alan. I appreciate your feedback and kind comments. Thanks for stopping by to read my little poem.😉
A fine tribute Kevin.
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